


Commitment

by HannahLydia



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Atlas CEO Rhys, Character Death, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Rival CEOs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 14:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20193616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahLydia/pseuds/HannahLydia
Summary: After it becomes public knowledge that Rhys was responsible for Handsome Jack's return, the CEO of Atlas is left mentally and physically drained by the subsequent outcry. Under fire and unable to see a way out, the very last thing he needs is Jack coming to him in his hour of need...





	Commitment

**Author's Note:**

> My god, it’s been so long since I’ve written and posted anything, I’m so sorry for my long absence-!
> 
> This fic is a gift for the lovely Zopad89@Twitter (zopadthekat@Tumblr) based on a prompt we talked about and proceeded to upset each other about. If you know me, you know I love angst so this was just begging to be done! Plus Kat’s been an amazing support to me and always lets me talk her ear off so she deserves whatever I can give her as thanks!  
‘Arms Tonite’ by Mother Mother got me through this draft; it’s probably worth a listen after you’ve finished~

It had been a stressful week to say the least. Granted, it had been tough ever since Rhys had assumed the role of CEO, but up until now the job had always felt like a challenge he could rise to. Atlas was his baby, and - god, help him - he’d raise her with all the care he could afford.  
He supposed the first glorious year of his tenure had been a period that the old Hyperion HR team would have referred to as “the stretch zone” - the undefined space between comfort and stress, where his blood had been constantly pumping and his mind constantly working. He’d been impossibly busy, making ground-breaking decisions and struggling with a company that was so far in the red it looked to be bleeding money. Even so, he’d loved every minute of it. Now, however? He’d been pushed way, _way_ over the edge.

Rhys had felt like he’d been fending off attacks on all sides - what with a brutal campaign against him, lawsuits and a handful of jumped-up corporations trying to take bites out of Atlas like proverbial piranhas. In the past twenty-four hours, everything had come to one horrible crescendo. A faction of Vault Hunters and their sympathisers had gotten wind that he was responsible for Handsome Jack’s “regeneration” and were baying for blood; persons he’d once hoped to consider allies who’d now denounced him. Ugly rumours had been spreading, and Rhys had been holed up in his office for three days straight, trying to get his legal and public relations team to_ come up with something_ that would clear his name.  
While the young CEO had always talked at length about corporate responsibility and doing the right thing, he was at a loss of what to do now that his own actions had created such vitriol. Bringing back Jack was a subject that couldn’t be swept under the rug, and there was little that could be done to smooth it over now without risking corruption.  
On the cusp of a mental breakdown, Rhys had left a crack team to debate on the right course to take, and had finally managed to make it to his penthouse apartment with his tail between his legs. He’d desperately needed a shower, a cold compress and something to vent his frustration on - even if he were to just scream into the nearest pillow. He was drained both physically and mentally; the usual light in his eyes had been snuffed out, and he had dark rings underneath them from his many sleepless nights. Concerned calls from Vaughn, Fiona and Sasha had gone unanswered and unreturned. Every little task was taxing; he worked to live, he lived to work.

He’d been home for about four hours and during that time he’d collapsed into a fitful sleep, woken to the violent vibrations of his ECHOcomm, washed, brushed his teeth, calibrated his cybernetics and eyed the thirty-year-old malt whiskey Jack had bought him as a moving-in gift. The joke being, of course, that the whiskey was older than him, and that Rhys wouldn’t be able to handle it, but hey... it’d “make a nice paperweight”.  
Well, _fuck_ the paperweight - Rhys needed something to take his mind off of the shitstorm building against him. The higher the alcohol content, the better.

He soon fetched a tumbler, popped the cork-cap on the bottle and poured an overly-generous amount. One sip had him coughing, but he kept drinking until his nerves were quietened and he’d been desensitised enough to deal with the swell of dark thoughts rattling around in his head.  
It was when he was halfway through the bottle that Rhys decided to make pancakes, of all things. Something simple and homely, something he could empty a tub of ice-cream on top of while he sat and watched mind-numbing intergalactic cable, like Eden-7: Highlights From Party Planet. He took to it as if it would be his release, his escape - fixating on the fact that if this went well, then things couldn’t be all that bad, right? But much as he tried to find a positive outlet, the spitting oil and the dire looking results of his attempts soon sobered him up. He had been too wasted to remember the correct ratio of flour, milk and eggs, and every effort just ended up looking like undercooked squid before it went the way of the trash.

He was newly aware that he was shaking, but whether that was the stress or the booze, he couldn’t say.  
This was it. He’d screwed up so badly that he couldn’t even make himself a god-damn _pancake_. Was he depressed? Most likely. Was he at the end of his rope? Again, highly likely.

Before he’d even realised what he was doing, the whiskey bottle was out of his hands and traversing the length of his kitchenette, where it then smashed spectacularly against the wall. Twisting the dial of the oven hob so hard he almost wrenched it off, Rhys rested his elbows on the counter and thrust his head into his hands.  
What had he been _thinking_ \- taking on a corporation the size of Atlas? Drawing his line in the sand by reviving Handsome Jack, of all people? This wasn’t the small club of his youth, with his homemade business cards and his dad’s old briefcase, and where a mistake would be answered with a slap on the wrist. This was a company with a _legacy_, not to mention a planet-sized headquarters and technology patents that would make Hyperion weep. A corporation that was in the public eye, and where he was to be held accountable for every oversight. Rhys had never considered that he was out of his depth before, but now that he was losing his mind and watching everything unravel, he thought he could see where and how the bottom had dropped out. The root cause - the rot, the pestilence - as with most things, started and ended with _Jack_.  
If he had never salvaged his ECHOeye and the AI within… if he had never beaten the late Nakayama’s black ops team to the punch when it came to providing said AI with a vessel… if he had just let Jack _lie_… but he hadn’t been able to. Bringing Jack back had satisfied a masochistic urge within him that should have remained unchecked. It was a decision he’d come to regret this past week, despite the fact that he was stupidly in love with him.

As if right on cue, the front door to Rhys’ penthouse apartment opened with a muffled ‘_kh-shhff_’, followed by a voice that politely intoned: “HELLO SEXY. WELCOME TO YOUR PLEASURE PALACE.”  
Kneading his temples in irritation, Rhys found that the mild dismay and annoyance he usually felt whenever Jack reprogrammed the welcome message at his door was increased tenfold. He’d hacked the system _again_, and for what? To code some stupid ego trip as he crossed the threshold.

“Hee-eey, shitface--!” Came the cry from the corridor as Jack threw down his access card and who-knew-what-else on the sideboard. “-- where’s my welcomin’ committee, huh?”  
“Kitchen,” Rhys managed to muster in response, trying not to sound as grave as he felt. He failed. If there was one thing he didn’t want to have to deal with right now, it was Jack. The man was so emotionally constipated that he didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘comfort’. If anything, this was surely some Herculean task sent to try Rhys, to see if he could handle Jack’s mouth and Jack’s lofty opinions when his headspace was at its darkest. A test. Could he stare into the face of the man who was the reason for his misery, knowing full well that Jack wouldn’t have the clarity of mind to notice it for himself?

The next thing Rhys heard was Jack’s footfalls accompanied by clawing, obnoxious whistling. The sound set him on edge - had him closing his eyes and trying to tune it out.  
Jack must have stopped short when he saw him, because Rhys was conscious of the fact that his footsteps stalled, lingering in the doorway.  
“Woah, uh. What in the _shit’s_ the matter with you?”  
“Stomach ache,” Rhys lied, but it was as good of a reason as any as to why he was bent so oddly over the counter. “Cramp, I guess? Haven’t been eating,”  
“Yee-eesh. That Atlas caterin’ of yours not up to scratch, huh? Should'a said. I’d’ve sent ya one o’ mine,” A pause. “Anyone had the chance t’ tell ya you look like the back-end of a skag lately?”  
“Guess I have you to rely on for that, Jack,”  
“Wellll-ll, I aim to please,”

With the exchange of ‘pleasantries’ over and done with, Jack stepped closer, and Rhys finally raised his head to look at him.  
The first thing he noticed was that the older man was wearing fresh aftershave - smelt divine, in fact - and was smiling the same cock-sure and self-righteous grin as always. He was in his trusty yellow sweater but had ditched his shirt, vest and blazer combo in favour of being more casual. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, displaying the fine, dark hairs across his arms and the apparently topped-up tan that hinted he’d just come from a short spate on a sunbed. Everything about him was well-groomed in an obnoxious way, and Rhys was appalled to find he loved and loathed it in equal measure.

Jack cocked an eyebrow, gesturing his head almost rudely to the oven-top beside them. “Soo-ooo... can’t help but notice your pan’s empty,”  
“Lost my appetite,” Came Rhys’ monotonous reply.  
“Christ, _you’re_ a barrel o’ laughs this evening, huh, cupcake?” With a roll of his eyes, Jack began pacing and shaking his head. Though he sounded offended by Rhys’ apparent bad mood, he also didn’t sound wholly surprised, and that alone was nearly enough to cause Rhys to snap.  
“-- so, what happened? Got a hole in your favourite sock? Virus in your cybernetics? Ex-girlfriend o’ yours crawled out o’ the woodwork askin’ for some maintenance?”  
“Would you just--- _do_ me a favour and _stop talking?_” Rhys snapped suddenly. He was trying to think. He couldn’t _think_ with Jack cracking jokes at his expense.  
Whether the force of his words had stunned Jack or tickled him, he couldn’t say, but either way the older man pulled a face and turned his focus to the kitchen itself. If he spotted the shards of the smashed bottle and the amber spatter up the wall, he said nothing.

There was a moment of silence between them, one in which Jack paid Rhys an almost uncomfortable amount of attention as he assessed him from head to toe. Seeming to decide something, he tilted his head on one side and reached out to clap an arrogant hand on Rhys’ shoulder. “All riii-iiight, I get it. It’s down to this--- smear campaign business, am I right? Which - _inevitably_ \- boils down t’ me. Or, well, your obsession with me,”  
“-_Jack_-”  
“Just nuke ‘em from orbit, kiddo!” He cried, empty laughter lacing through his voice. “You know those bandit dickwads aren’t gonna settle for some public apology or cover up. They’re just-- gonna chip away at’cha until you fold,”

Kneading his temples almost aggressively now, Rhys closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about it - about the Vault Hunters, about Jack, about how his shares had plummeted overnight or about how Atlas had seen a steep decline for the first time since he’d gotten them back in the black. The campaign had just been the icing on the cake, and it was all too much for him to deal with right now. Jack’s voice and Jack’s stupidly morbid laughter was only making matters worse.

“Can we... _not_ talk about this? Seriously? I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week, Jack. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m--”  
“Tetchy? A rubber band ‘bout t’ snap? I’m not _blind_, idiot.”  
_No?_ Rhys had the mind to just ask his boyfriend to leave. He was too tired to go toe-to-toe with him, given the fact that Jack only knew how to ruin a good thing. He was a breaker, not a fixer; the day that Jack learnt how to successfully console _anybody_ would be the day that hell chose to freeze over.  
“Then _WHY_ are you here?” Rhys burst out instead, his short temper seeping into his tone.

They locked eyes.  
Jack didn’t even have the good grace to look embarrassed. He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world - even went so far as to waggle his eyebrows conspiratorially. “To... help you take a load off?” The ‘duh?’ in his voice was apparent.  
Rhys knew better than to think he was being charitable. The offer wasn’t meant as a nice gesture; it was just another way of Jack saying he was here for a booty call. It was obvious he didn’t give a shit about the situation; if he did, he wouldn’t poke fun at it and try to lighten the mood with off-brand humour. It was like the whole scenario amused him and he expected Rhys to be just as amused, if not just as untouched by it. Why? Because he was an _asshole_, that’s why.

A painful throbbing began in Rhys’ left temple, situated just to the side of his port. He knew it was a sure sign of a migraine more so than a malfunction, and the more he tried to will it away the stronger it became. It was like a needle being jabbed incessantly into the back of his eye, and with it came the need to shield himself from the harsh lighting of his kitchenette.  
Exhaling between partially-grit teeth, he pushed himself away from the counter and decided he _needed_ to eat something, if only to try and stop that awful sensation.  
“I’m not in the mood to take this between the sheets, Jack,” He replied tiredly, moving around the room on auto-pilot while doing his best to keep his back to him. “I’m… barely functioning. _You_\--? You could probably handle this kind of heat for breakfast, but I _can’t_, Jack. I’m not-- built to be the villain here. This is undoing everything I’ve ever worked for,”

Rhys happened to turn at the right moment then, and caught Jack’s face morphing from that smug, semi-lewd expression to something downright _incensed_. The older man’s eyebrows seemed to knot together as they drew low over steely eyes. “‘_xcuse me_?” Jack hissed. If it weren’t for Rhys’ solemn gaze he might have thought to make a bigger deal out of it. As it stood, however, Jack started shaking his head with vigour, raising his index finger. “Nah-nahnah-no, kid. Firstly? I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just _erroneously_ refer to me as the god damn villain. Secondly? _Rude_. Thirdly-- y’wanna refuse the offer? _Fine_. Jus’ as well that that wasn’t my only reason for stoppin’ by this dumpheap,”

_‘Dumpheap’?_ Rhys’ mind echoed incredulously, his lips drawn into the thinnest of lines. _T’rrific. Tell me what you really think, Jack. Lay it on the line for me._  
Feeling as if his head was in a vice, Rhys began making preparations for the food, even as his stomach twisted at the thought of eating. He could taste the whiskey on his tongue again, but this time it was accompanied with the unmistakable tang of bile at the back of his throat.  
His movements were robotic as he pulled out some bread, sandwich filler and a couple of plates from the cupboard. So help him, he supposed he’d better make something for Jack too, even if he wanted him gone. After all, that was the thing with Jack - he was immovable when he so chose to be, and he had a feeling that right now Jack was about to trail off into one of his infamous speeches.

“So... are you gonna spit it out?” Rhys prompted, tearing into the bread’s paper wrapping and wincing as the sound shot straight through his skull. “Or are y’just gonna stand there?”  
“_Cute_,” Jack narrowed his eyes at him; he could see it at the corner of his vision. While Rhys knew he was treading on thin ice here, he couldn’t help himself. He was lacking sleep, motivation and a clear way forward, and if Jack wasn’t going to help, then he could put up with his bluntness. With any luck, he’d eventually get the message.  
Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Jack began to pace nonchalantly back and forth once more. He shrugged his shoulders, one hand poised in the air ready to gesticulate along with his speech. “See-- this whole business got me thinking. Y’know, the campaa-aaign, all this shitty rhetoric at our expense... got me thinkin’ about insurance, y’know? Bandits, vault hunters… they’re like friggin’ cockroaches. Stamp on one of ‘em and they just keep crawling back. The shitheads don’t even die no matter how hard you dig your boot in,”

If Rhys’ appetite hadn’t already been upheaved, then the direction the conversation was now taking was doing the job all over again. Cockroaches weren’t exactly what he wanted to be thinking about when he was preparing food.  
He pulled a small butter knife out from the drawer beside him and began to work, even though the distinct smell of Maliwan’s branded Rakk Egg and Bacon mayo also wasn’t doing it for him right now either.  
“Your point?” He coaxed raggedly, not even bothering to look up from his sandwich.

“My _point_ is, these douchebags have already bumped me off once before. An’ you? You could’ve put my AI through the god-damn shredder if you wanted to. Now that these assholes have our number, they’ll be crawlin’ all over us and I gotta say-- I’m not wild about it. This whole mortality thing is overrated. Know what _I_ want? I want an _extended warranty_. See, it’s called being a ‘living legend’, kiddo - emphasis on the _living_ part,”

Rhys carried on with what he was doing, his face a mask. After all, this was a song he had heard plenty of times before. Jack was so terrified of death that you could hardly believe he’d faced it and cheated it once, if not multiple times, before.  
Sighing heavily, Rhys reached for a knife from the block on the counter top, getting ready to cut the sandwiches into twos. “If this is where you bring up endoskeletons and skin suits again? I’m out,”

“Nah. Done with that idea, came up with a better one,” Jack replied in one breath, before snapping his fingers. “I mean… take-- take Nakayama, for instance. Nakayama had it _right from the start_, babe. That weirdo might’ve been so god-damn obsessed but he was right on the frickin’ money about one thing,” And with that, he paused, apparently for effect. The smile that began to contort Jack’s face then could only be described as sadistic, and Rhys found himself staring into it like someone staring into an abyss.  
“_Clones_,”

“Clones?” Rhys repeated, forgetting what he’d been in the middle of doing. He stood there with the knife hovering in the air, simply staring at Jack slack-jawed and open-mouthed.

“Whole shit-ton of ‘em. Kinda like a sorta-- phoenix project, right? Nakayama even set up some covert team to keep my DNA on file. I mean, kudos to them, employees of the year-- they already freakin’ _started_! Jus’... pushing out clones and keeping ‘em on ice, even tamperin’ with how to speed up the ageing process! That way when this body starts to get a bit… _ehh_, past the pasture, they jus’ have to install me into one of those skin-sacks. It’s _genius!_”

Jack was talking so fast that Rhys wasn’t so much slow on the uptake as he was tripping and falling every time he tried to process the information.  
_Clones_. Hadn’t there been something back in the old World of Curiosities about Nakayama and clones? He’d figured at the time (with some degree of affection, even) that that had always just been a pipe dream and not a reality, but now-- now he looked back on that freely-given tidbit of information with an unsettled stomach and a pounding heart.  
Goosebumps had begun to break out across his skin, and Rhys had to clutch hold of the counter with one hand to steady himself.  
“Jack, what--- what’re you _saying_?” His voice sounded weak even to his own ears. Uneven and… frightened.

With his eyebrows furrowed, Jack’s gaze travelled from Rhys’ hand gripping the worktop back up to his uneasy expression. His own eyes narrowed to slits, seemingly trying to figure out exactly why Rhys seemed so disturbed. “Geez, kiddo… do I really need t’ repeat myself?”

“No, I-- I _heard_ you all right, it’s-- it’s just---” Appalled, Rhys began shaking his head. Although he couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason for his growing terror, nor could he put it into words, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. “--- what you’re talking about… d-developing clones of yourself indefinitely? It’s--”  
“Immortality, baby!” Jack interrupted with a triumphant cry, a charismatic smile lighting up his features. He even raised his arms, palms upturned like some kind of good-natured gameshow host, and cocked his head. “I mean… ‘s worth a shot, am I right? Christ, d’ya know what people would _pay_ to live forever?”  
“Jack--”  
“See, my skin-suits’ll all wither and die eventually, that just comes with th’ territory. But if I keep a production line going? I’ll be set! Much as I could get away with swappin’ out ageing parts for cybernetics and becomin’ a super badass _cyborg_, I’d rather not go with the whole... robot thing, after all. Sooner not join ol’ Wilhelm on that road,”

_What the hell? What… What the fucking HELL, Jack?_  
Rhys’ panic began to escalate, a sense of deja-vu hitting him like ice-cold water. It was clear from Jack’s casual tone and from the way he raced through his speech at a mile a minute that he considered this a done deal. He’d thought about it. He’d done a _lot_ of thinking about it. It was a wonder Rhys was even hearing about it now.

Rhys didn’t know how he found his voice, but he did, even if he had to swallow back the bile that had leapt into his mouth.  
“_No_,” He objected, though not as firmly as he'd intended. He half-turned from the counter to face him, stabbing the knife blade-downwards onto a nearby chopping block. He kept his hand locked around the handle, and squeezed until his knuckles turned white. It was like his anchor, his only support while Rhys stared at the monstrous not-stranger he called his boyfriend. “Nonono_NO_, you can’t _do_ this, Jack. It’s -- It’s immoral!”

Clicking his teeth before chuckling darkly to himself, Jack closed the gap between them only to place his hands on Rhys’ shoulders. “Baby, don’t be like thaa-aaat,” He jeered in a patronising, sing-song voice. “What? Worried you’ll get old on me and I’ll lose int’rest, huh?”

“No, Jack,” Rhys was breathless, and vaguely aware that his eyes were stinging. Though he’d never fooled himself into thinking he could be enough of a positive influence in Jack’s life that he’d change him, he’d thought that maybe, just maybe, he’d made some breakthroughs with him. Except now here he was, and Jack hadn’t seemed this out-of-reach in so long. “Jack? Listen to me. This isn’t about _us_, okay? You can’t-- You can't just-- bring someone into the world to take them out of it! To _become_ them. That’s… That’s _body-snatching_!”

But Jack was laughing. Shaking his head, like he was trying to console a small child that thought there was a monster in their closet. It only served to antagonise Rhys further.  
“Re-laaax, sweetheart, they’d be nothin’ without me! Fact is, they’d owe me their existence. C’me on, you realise how y’sound right? They’re just _clones_, Rhys! They’re surplus to freakin’ requirements, just like-- trial subject number one,”

At that admission, there was a palpable change in the atmosphere.  
Rhys had turned cold, the horror seizing hold of him until he was sure he was stupefied into silence.  
“Tr-Trial sub--…?” He couldn't get the words out. A part of him, a very small part that was still level-headed enough to consider Jack a real threat, prompted him into backing up tight against the counter.  
_Remember, Rhys? When he wanted you to be his first body? What’s to say he hasn’t changed his mind on that, huh?_  
The fine hairs on the young man’s arms and the back of his neck stood on end, and his testicles hugged tight to his body in fear. His only consolation was that the abject terror he felt didn’t quite manifest on his face. Instead he looked enraged, teeth bared as his free hand balled into a fist at his side.  
“What ‘_trial_’, Jack?” He hissed unsteadily.

For the first time, Jack seemed genuinely surprised by his reaction. He stepped back a little to give him room, eyebrows climbing, his hands raised in mock-surrender. “Sheesh, kiddo, don’t get your friggin’... panties all worked up. I just had t’ test the equipment, all right? Cerebral cybernetics aren’t exactly a walk in the park. Team jus’ needed a guinea-pig for a run-through; see if my AI could hop from place to place.”

“A guinea-pig?” Rhys repeated. His pupils had constricted to mere specks, and his grip on the knife had begun to tighten.

Jack shrugged as if it were no big deal, like he was making a fuss over nothing. For a fraction of a second, Rhys tried to convince himself he looked guilty, but then the second passed and it was clear he’d just misread the amused twitch of his lips.  
“TimTams,” Jack revealed bluntly, and all the air left Rhys’ lungs in one fell swoop.  
“Pulled him in for some cybernetic upgrades like yours and, hey, he _really_ came through. He almost seemed freakin’ _excited_ about it. Granted he… prob’ly didn’t know the full truth of it, but hey. Yours truly here plugged-in with a double-ended jack, port-to-port and I could mosey in an’ out as I god damn pleased. Team’re working on some kinda... suppressant or some shit to keep ol’ TimTams out of his own head and then- bOOM. Full AI integration. Mission accomplished, baby!”

He was insane. Categorically and undeniably insane.  
There was no remorse. No empathy. No doubt. What he was describing wasn’t a new plan by any stretch of the imagination, it was simply the old endoskeleton plan rehashed. To be confronted with it again, even if Rhys wasn’t to be on the receiving end of it, was so traumatic that he almost entirely switched off.  
He was barely aware that he was in the process of speaking. “... You’re gonna take his body,” He deduced slowly, unable to hear much over the sound of his blood roaring in his ears and his heart racing at an almost painful speed. “Tim. Tim’s body,”

“The first bump on a _loo-ong_ road, sweetheart.” Jack confirmed, although Rhys could barely make him or his words out. He was staring at him as if staring through him - as if he could pinpoint the sheer evil that resided within the man he thought he loved more than sense. He wished he could cut it out, but to dissect all that was wrong with Jack was to destroy him.  
He was a contagion; one that would go on destroying anything and everything in its path unless the source could be determined and eliminated.  
It wasn’t about what Rhys wanted anymore. It wasn’t about love or loyalty; it was about the greater good.

Instinct was far from the driving force behind the motions of his hand. It was clarity - so clear and so damning that it possessed hold of his mind and body as though wrestling him out of it.  
He caught Jack entirely unawares so that when he pulled the knife free and came at him with it, there was no resistance. Jack didn’t even have time to react as Rhys drove the blade home with enough force to penetrate his chest, plunging it in to the hilt.  
Jack made an awful, choking sound then - half-splutter, half-gargle as blood filled his airways and rose to the back of his throat. His eyes were wide and terror-stricken, and for a few seconds they just stood there, staring at each other in mutual horror. As Jack oh so slowly looked down at the knife embedded in his chest, confirming that it was indeed there, the realisation of what he’d just done hit Rhys at his very core. His adrenaline spiked as he withdrew the knife and dropped it with a clatter to the floor.

It was then that Jack’s legs began to give way. He pitched forwards only for Rhys to catch him in his arms, cradling him and sinking with him to the floor. As the older man made the mistake of inhaling, air rushed to the point of least resistance and collapsed his punctured lung.

“_Jack_,” The name was wrenched from Rhys’ chest, thick with devastation. Now that the spontaneous deed had been done, he felt as if he’d stabbed himself in the heart along with him.  
There was blood all over his hands, his clothes and Jack’s sweater alike, and the terror that he was now face-to-face with was a sight that would be forever burned into his memory. Jack’s expression was a picture of agony and incredulity, the accusation of betrayal evident in his eyes. Blood blossomed at the corners of his lips, crimson on his tongue, and Rhys would swear that there was a tear of shock or pain in the corner of his eye.  
Jack writhed awkwardly, struggling to make any coherent sound at all. “Rhy--…” He tried, and although he might have meant for it to come out as a hiss or a threat, he sounded like a man begging for a lifeline. He was gripping onto Rhys’ arm, clawing, frantic, the other hand raking uselessly at his shoulder. With every second that passed, his grip waned - weakening until he was fruitlessly clutching at him and trying to retain purchase.

“R-Rhys-sss…? _Rhys?_”  
Jack didn't need to ask 'why'; it was already there in the air between them. A question that Rhys didn't have the energy or resolve to answer.   
Anguished, Rhys could only gaze down at him in return, knowing full well that he was just another person on the long list of loved ones that had betrayed him.

It felt like an eternity before Jack slipped into unconsciousness. His eyes had slowly started to turn towards the ceiling and then after a minute he fell still in Rhys’ arms. The port behind his ear audibly _fizzed_ with an electrical charge, as final as the tolling of a funeral bell, as if announcing that his AI had died along with the vessel.

Chest heaving, Rhys remained as still as possible, trying to suck in enough air to fill the void that had opened up within him. The void that had appeared the moment the light had faded from Jack’s eyes. Still holding him in his arms, he didn’t realise he was crying until he came to rest his head against his and felt the wetness trapped between his cheek and the still-warm surface of Jack’s mask.

He’d done the right thing. That’s what would be said in the morning, at least, when the galaxy awoke to the news that Handsome Jack had met his maker.  
His PR team would have a cover story. The faction against him would agree to settle their dispute. For all intents and purposes, he’d be _free_.  
The realisation of this, and his dismay at his own relief, forced a sob out of Rhys that escalated into uncontrollable remorse at what he’d done.  
He’d just murdered his own boyfriend in cold blood… and he was _relieved_.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that, rocking Jack against him and crying against his lifeless form.  
After a while, words from a not-so distant past began echoing in his mind - words that Jack had told him once, although not meant in confidence. Whether his recollection of them now was designed to taunt or console him, he couldn’t tell, but they haunted him. Haunted him until they were not so much echoes as they were screams.

_‘**This** is what commitment looks like.’_  
_ ‘**This** is leadership.’_

Now he knew.  
So help him... now he knew.

* * *

  
  


**Notes:** I will leave you with this amazing piece of art by [Zopad89](https://twitter.com/Zopad89)~


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